Not All Battles Are Physical
by campbellrossalex
Summary: In the fight against Zarkon, one must always be ready, but during quiet hours when the castle is not a flurry of activity, the leader of lions spends a few precious hours learning that it's a leader's duty to care for himself first.


Shiro's mind knows that he is free, that he is somewhere safe and protected, but his body forgets. His body only remembers what has been ingrained into it through beatings and surprise ambushes, and that is _survival_. When he wakes, he does so instantly, no grogginess or leisurely stretching here. Instead, he snaps from a light doze (another thing his body had forgotten: deep slumber) and into high alert, eyes darting, chest heaving, searching for any potential threat.

He finds none. Of course not. But the tension is always there, no matter how much Shiro tries to will it away.

It's easier with his own room, where there's no one to startle if he wakes in the middle of what passes for an Arusian night, but instead of his utilitarian bunk or the corner of a dingy metal cell (not helping, not now, stop it), he finds silk sheets and a mattress that gives with every movement and thinks, _oh_.

One delightful side effect of the Galra Druids rummaging around in his mind is the lag in his memory, where details are slow to come to him and he fumbles for an answer to pressing questions like where he is and how he got here.

"Shiro?"

Sleepy, feminine, with that typical Altean lilt to its vowels. He looks to his left and wishes he didn't, wishes he isn't being seen with his hands trembling and hair damp with sweat. He brings his hand to his mouth, recoils at the cold bite of metal, and lowers it again. Swallowing once, he opens his mouth to reply, "Yeah." Hoarse, as if he'd been screaming. And then, "Give me just a minute."

How did he get here?

While Shiro composes himself, there comes a shift of covers that his mind notes and files away (always ready, never relaxed), before there's one slim hand on his shoulder and another tucked into the palm of his own. When Allura squeezes, the receptors in his metal arm register the pressure but not the warmth, not the concern that he can feel with her skin against his.

"Shiro, look at me." A command. He does as he's told. Her eyes are so blue. "You're alright, I promise you that." The confusion must have shown on his face, because her expression softens. "You were up late last night. I found you staring out from the bay deck, not moving an inch."

That does it. Quick snatches of memory flash through his mind; the conviction that there had been an intruder lurking just outside the castle, a thorough perimeter check, then double- and triple-checking that check. (Could never be too cautious.) Anxiety and paranoia ate at him, making him too keyed up to sleep, so he'd been forced to quite literally stare off into space in an effort to shut it out. The whorls of galaxies and brand-new constellations were all at once soothing and terrifying; Shiro made a game of connecting stars together and tried not to feel dwarfed by the scope of it all.

He remembers Allura's voice cutting through his thoughts and bringing them to a dead halt, the stern, straightforward tone of someone with long practice in giving orders ( _'Just how long have you been awake?'_ ), and then, later, the feel of her shoulder pressed against his. Silence, but friendly, companionable instead of all-consuming, and for once, his mind didn't race to fill the space it left with thoughts best left in the past.

But nothing after that. Now that he knows some of what brought him here (in a princess's bedroom, under a princess's sheets, god, don't think about it), some of the tension eases and his breathing evens as he exhales in one slow, measured breath. Once again his gaze focuses on the face in front of him and he's able to look without faltering. "I remember that we were sitting together, but... After that-?"

He lets the question hang there, and Allura is happy to take it from there. "You fell asleep," and there's something like a laugh there that makes him feel like a child being indulged, "but considering that you've been working yourself ragged, I didn't see fit to wake you." The question of how she managed to get him here pops into his head a moment before she answers it. "I carried you here instead. It would have been to your room, but the doors to each Paladin's quarters are keyed to recognise them alone. The override sequence was too complex for me to do without dropping you first." At this, he detects a note of pride, and it figures that her eyes shine brighter whenever she has the chance to explain a new feature in her beloved castle's advancements.

Wait.

"I'm sorry, what? _You_ carried me here? It wasn't Coran or, or-"

"Coran wasn't available and I was quite able to handle the situation on my own, thank you very much." The peeved expression and crossed arms clue him in that he's probably just said something offensive, but any way he looked at it, he's still taller and a good deal heavier. Shiro wouldn't go so far as to say that princesses were delicate (there were too many ladies at the Galaxy Garrison who could and did give him a run for his money for that), but he is not a gangly teen by any means and their difference in mass just doesn't add up.

"Perhaps you'll get a better answer to that question later on." Shiro doesn't miss the shift from annoyed to sly and thinks that he might just be gaining new insight on how much she delights in keeping her Paladins guessing. "But for now, you'll just have to trust me."

"Okay," he finally says, defeated. "Well, thanks for, uh, taking care of me, but it's probably about time that I get ready. You have to be prepared for anything with Zarkon on the loose." A fact that Shiro knows intimately. The tension that ebbed some during their talk returns with full force; why is he sitting here chatting in bed when he could be _doing something_? His very first morning at the Castle of Lions, Shiro was doing everything asked of him. The only option now is to keep going, he needs to be ready, he needs to set an example for the rest of his team.

Pulling the covers back, he moves with purpose to get up, but the sudden burst of determination is gone as quick as it arrives with a hand circled around his wrist to keep him where he is. Though the pressure is slight, Shiro knows how to tell when an opponent is holding back. Maybe there's something to the idea that Allura could heft his weight with ease after all. With great care, Shiro places that thought into a snug little box and sets it aside to deal with his complicated emotions toward women who could kick his ass later. "Let go."

"No." The petulant curve of her mouth is at odds with her normal no-nonsense demeanor, something he would have found endearing if it wasn't keeping him from getting things done. "Shiro, it hasn't been more than a few hours since you've slept, and I suspect it's the first real rest you've gotten in days. I understand your willingness to be prepared, believe me when I say that I do, but at this rate, you'll run yourself into the ground." That stings, but she presses forward, relentless. "What good are you to us if you can't even take care of yourself properly? You're in no shape to face Zarkon, and certainly no shape to lead your team. It's time for you to stop trying to shoulder the burden that all of us should carry together."

Always with the speeches. Shiro tried again, "But as long as Zarkon-"

"Zarkon," she interrupts, "has kept his forces on a tight leash for the past several days. While we cannot let down all our defenses just yet, sitting here fretting over what he's planning is not going to help. In fact, it might do the exact opposite, considering the state you're in." Now that was below the belt. "You owe it to yourself to prepare efficiently, and that means maintaining your best condition. Getting rest. Recovering."

"Recovering? From _what_ , exactly?"

Though he's been on edge since waking up, Shiro's reflexes are sluggish enough that Allura makes quick work of pulling him off balance, pinning both arms behind his back, and pressing him down into the mattress. Hard. Gone are his reservations about alien strength; this is the real deal. Animal instinct has him struggling, blood roaring in his ears, breath coming in harsh pants. For a split second it isn't a supposedly peaceful Altean bearing down on him but a Galra soldier, and he can smell the rank stench of alien blood spattered on his skin. He's back in the ring and his opponent has him defenseless; it's only a matter of time before the finishing blow but he isn't ready, _not like this_ -

"Shiro." His hands are free. "It isn't real." There's a forehead pressed against his. "You're safe." Those eyes are still so blue, staring right into his own. "Not all battles are physical. You might be free of the Galra prison, but your mind still fights to protect you." The image blurs, he squeezes his eyes shut to keep from tearing up, but it doesn't help. His hands twitch, grasping for something, anything, and find her, tangle themselves in her hair, and hold on for dear life. Her voice is low now, soft, soothing even if he can't make out the words, and her fingers are carding through his short hair. He doesn't have it in him to feel embarrassed or ashamed of himself, not when it feels _good_ to let go, right in a way he never anticipated.

So long spent as a pillar of strength meant he has no idea what it's like to break down, even when he needs to.

As his heart seeks a way out of his cowardly body, a thumb creeps up to wipe gently at the moisture gathered on his lashes. Shiro clutches at her with everything he has and she talks. About him, about their mission, her father, her youth. Allura tells him stories of swimming in lakes so crystal clear one could see into the bottom, of smuggling animals inside the palace and hoping Coran wouldn't find them, of stealing custard pies from the kitchen and doling them out piece by bitty piece to share with her mice. While she talks and he listens, the tremor in his hands eases, his too-tight grip loosens, and the hitches in his breath even out.

Finally, Shiro can laugh when Allura recounts her disastrous attempt at befriending a nobleman's son, and when her tale ends, they both fall silent. Her fingers brush back his bangs and her smile is as soft as the rest of her. "I've kept you long enough. I should let you get some rest, but if you need me, I'll be in the control room."

The Adam's apple in his throat bobs and the words force themselves from his mouth against his will, "Wait." About to draw away, she pauses, prompting him to go on. "Could..." He hates himself for being so selfish. "Could you stay?" He doesn't care how selfish he is.

The careful kiss on his brow and the shift in her position to press against his chest are all the answer he needs, but she tells him anyway. "Of course, Shiro." And with his arms wound around her waist, his good hand against her back to feel the thudding of her heart, he thinks he can finally find peace. The castle is quiet, it feels as though the only sound in the world is their own breathing, and Shiro's eyes slide closed of their own accord, content at last to sleep deeply.

He doesn't dream, but waking is a rare pleasure.


End file.
